


And We Started At the End

by nicoleh262



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, M/M, Washington Capitals, Zombies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-30
Updated: 2015-06-30
Packaged: 2018-04-06 20:59:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4236399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nicoleh262/pseuds/nicoleh262
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lone traveler Mike Green stumbles across lonely shut-in Brooks Laich a few months after the apocalypse hits, and the two band together. While survival was what they originally had in mind, it is only once they grow close that they start living.</p>
<p>Or, more simply: Love in the time of the zombie apocalypse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And We Started At the End

**Author's Note:**

> So all the way back in March, I did a random prompt generator that gave me "zombies" and "friends to lovers," and nearly 13k and three months later, here we are. I watch a lot of The Walking Dead, which is where I got the term "biters" for zombies. Title taken from Fall Out Boy's "Alone Together," which, speaking of, I made a mix for this story, which you can listen to (preferably after reading) here: http://8tracks.com/nicoleh262/you-re-my-end-and-my-beginning

Mike Green meets Brooks Laich in a sex shop.

Not for the reasons you might think. It’s more complicated than that.

Mike Green meets Brooks Laich three months after the plague hits southern Canada and there are a scant few survivors left, much less anyone looking to spice up their sex life. Mike is looking for something— _anything_ —to eat, and by this point, most of the grocery stores and gas stations have been ransacked. Mike, on a run through some small town in southeastern Saskatchewan, comes across a place with drawn blinds, dark windows, and a plain white sign that reads “NSFW” and thinks why the hell not. The last thing he ate was a can of dog food, so he’s thinking he’s not above eating a penis-shaped lollipop or one of those edible thongs at this point.

Mike can’t see much from the outside, which he guesses is to be expected, given the nature of the place, but it’s not particularly helpful when trying to determine whether there are any biters inside. He draws his weapon, a pistol he’d bought and kept at his house but never used until after the plague, and tries the door. It won’t budge. It feels like there’s something pressed up against it, something heavy that Mike won’t be able to move on his own. He forces open one of the windows instead and tumbles through, getting twisted up in the blinds.

As his eyes adjust and he attempts to untangle himself, Mike is surprised to see that the shop looks… normal. Well, as “normal” as a sex shop can look, he supposes. The aisles are neat, racks of adult movies are still standing and well-organized; it’s almost as if it were still the time before. 

Almost, until there’s a gun in his face.

“Drop your weapon!” the gun commands. Mike obeys immediately. He wonders as an afterthought how he’s made it this far being this skittish.

“Who are you? What do you want?” the gun continues, or, rather, the man behind it. The voice contains mostly surprise, covered by a layer of fear.

“Uh, I’m Mike,” Mike says, stammering. “I don’t want any trouble, I’m just hungry.” He takes a closer look at the man threatening his life and is struck immediately by a pair of bright blue eyes. They are bloodshot, but Mike can tell--underneath the dark bags under his eyes, the unruly scruff on his jawline, and the paleness of his skin—that this man was once quite attractive. Still is, in an unkempt, semi-malnourished way, but he is also pointing a gun in Mike’s face, so that is kind of a turn-off.

The man raises an eyebrow. “You came into a sex shop looking for food?”

Mike winces. “Look, it’s getting pretty bad out there, man. I haven’t eaten in two days, and that was just a can of dog food. Just let me get my gun, and I’ll be out of here.”

The man’s gaze softens, and his grip on his weapon loosens a little. “You haven’t eaten?” He searches Mike’s face, clearly taking in Mike’s own unshavenness and exhaustion. “How bad is it out there?”

“Let me put it this way: the last person I saw who didn’t want to eat me was back in Alberta, and she was gone before I could even get to her. Every supermarket, gas station, restaurant, and convenience store from here to Calgary has been ransacked, set on fire, or is too full of biters to get into. The last shower I had was the last time it rained, and Mother Nature doesn’t give you any soap.” This is the most Mike has said in the past three months. He’s apparently gotten quite bitter in that span of time, but he feels like it’s not unwarranted.

The man continues to appraise Mike for a moment longer, clearly taken aback by his tone and what he’s said. He bites his lip and then speaks up. “I have food here,” he says softly. “It’s just me. You can have some.” He lowers his gun, but picks up Mike’s swiftly. “Sorry,” he says, regaining some of his previous firmness, “but you can’t have this back.”

Mike’s stomach clenches. This guy may be attractive, but he also almost shot him and now has _two_ guns. This guy has to be at least somewhat strange to hole up in a sex shop for an extended period of time. Mike doesn’t know the layout of this place, and the only exit he knows of is the front door. There are at least a thousand other reasons why Mike should not follow this guy, but he’s so hungry he figures he won’t last much longer on the outside if he tries to run, especially not without a weapon. After a pause, he nods and follows the other man. 

Mike’s on his guard as he gets his bearings, taking in the shop. He can’t help but feel a little nostalgic for the time before, back when the biggest concern of anyone who was here was whether they looked better in black or red lingerie, rather than trying to make it from the black of night to the red dawn light of the morning. He doesn’t like staying in one place for too long, because it usually makes him feel like this, but he supposes he doesn’t have much of a choice without his weapon.

His leader makes an abrupt turn to the right, which leads them into a short hallway and then what looks to be the old manager’s office. The once-office contains a window, letting in the afternoon sun. Compared to the storefront, this room is much more obviously occupied: cushions from a desk chair have been laid out to form a makeshift bed, a pile of magazines and books (not all erotic, surprisingly), and—food. Mike’s mouth waters immediately at the small horde of packaged snacks at the furthest corner of the room.

“There’s a vending machine in the break room,” the man says. “I took the money from the register and got everything out, back when there was still power.”

“You—paid for all this stuff?” Mike says, shocked.

“Well, I mean, it wasn’t my money in the first place, so not really, I guess.” He shrugs lamely.

“But, I mean, why wouldn’t you just smash it open?” Mike asks, still perplexed.

The man gives him a funny look and snorts. “Do you want something to eat or not?”

Mike shuts up and nods.

“That’s what I thought,” the man says, rifling through the pile and tossing him a bag of cool ranch Doritos. “Here, I hate these.”

Mike catches it deftly and instantly tears it open. He tries not to stuff his face, but it’s incredibly difficult, given that it tastes like the best thing he’s ever eaten. The man watches him curiously, then continues. “How long you been out there?”

“Pretty much since the beginning. I left Calgary—that’s where I’m from—as soon as my family and friends were gone, because there was nothing left.” He chews thoughtfully. “It was really hard to stay, you know? Once everyone’s gone, home starts to feel…”

“Haunted?” the man supplies.

“Yeah.”

“Yeah. I know what you mean. It was hard to let go. _Is_ hard.”

There’s a pause as the other man gazes at his shoes, lost in thought. “How about you?” Mike prompts.

The man’s gaze jolts up, his eyes wide. “Oh, I—I’m from around here. Parents lived a few blocks over, in fact, but I’ve been here for about the past two months. Figured most people wouldn’t come looking in here, but I guess you’re not most people.” He cracks a smile and Mike gets a weird feeling in his stomach that is most likely not coming from the stale Doritos he just vacuumed in.

“Yeah, I guess not,” Mike says. He’s astonished that this guy hasn’t been outside in two months, and that he hadn’t left home. Maybe being inside was what made coping easier. Mike’s finished his meal and is digging around for crumbs as the conversation lulls.

“Where are you going, anyway?” the man asks abruptly.

“What do you mean?” Mike asks as he tips the bag back to pour the last bits into his mouth.

“I mean, you’ve been out there for months, and you’ve crossed a whole province. You’ve gotta be going somewhere.”

Mike considers this. He’s not really had much of a plan up until this point other than get as far away from his old home as he can and stay alive. He supposes this is because some part of him never really expected to make it this long, but he simply shrugs. “I dunno, man. I don’t have all the answers. I’m just going, I guess .”

The man doesn’t seem satisfied, but Mike is getting the sense he’s wearing out his welcome, so he tosses the bag in an arbitrary direction and stands up. “Speaking of going, that’s what I ought to be doing, so if you could just hand me my gun, I’ll be out of your hair.” Mike proffers his hand for the pistol, but the other man keeps it in his grasp.

“No, please,” the man says, nearly pleading. “You don’t have to, I mean. I’ve got plenty for both of us, at least for a while. You said yourself you’re not going anywhere. Stay.” The last word is nearly a whisper.

“Are you—are you sure?” Mike asks tentatively. “I mean, I don’t want to screw up your routine, or your system, or whatever you have going on here.”

“No, stay,” he repeats. “I get tired of talking to the mannequins and blow-up dolls all day. You’re much better company.”

They both laugh. “Okay,” Mike decides. “But on one condition: you tell me your name.”

“Brooks,” the man says. “Brooks Laich.”

Mike thinks it’s the best thing he’s heard in three months.

~

Mike and Brooks spend the rest of the day getting better acquainted, but Mike carefully avoids as much as he can pertaining to the time before, since Brooks doesn’t seem to be too keen on sharing. They get along well, and Mike doesn’t want to do or say anything that could screw up this new relationship, since, as far as he knows, Brooks is the last human being alive apart from himself. Both men enjoy having someone to talk to again, besides the voices in their heads. Mike learns that Brooks was a mechanic before the plague, and Brooks learns Mike was an electrician. (“A lot of good that does me now, huh?” he jokes, which makes Brooks laugh before reassuring him, “I’m sure you’re good at something.”)

Brooks gives Mike a tour with the intention of getting Mike more acquainted with the layout of the store but actually ends up being about half that and half awkward dancing around the brazen eroticism of NSFW’s merchandise. The left side of the shop is where most of the shelves are, but they aren’t heavy, so they could be easily pushed around if need be. It’s this defense system that stalled Mike on his first venture into NSFW: Brooks has shoved two each up against the front door and the back door that leads to the back parking lot. As it is, the back office is already pretty well-protected, hidden behind the cashier’s counter, a dividing wall, and two doors between it and the rest of the store. The store itself is well-stocked, but most of the goods will take some MacGyver-ing to make into anything useful (useful for survival, anyway.) Mike makes a note to grab a paddle and maybe a whip from the (surprisingly small) BDSM section.

Once the tour is finished, Mike makes himself a bed out of a mix of boyfriend and girlfriend pillows . He can’t help but chuckle to himself about the irony, considering his own romantic life hasn’t been much different than this: going to bed with a mixture of men and women. He wonders as an afterthought if Brooks will think he’s weird for using both, or for not picking just the girlfriend ones. He tells himself he’s over-analyzing and being silly, and even if Brooks noticed, he didn’t seem to be the type to judge. He and Brooks agree that it’s probably best that they sleep in the same room, for logistical reasons. Mike doesn’t complain.

After a dinner of assorted Frito-Lay products and some Sour Patch Kids for dessert, they lock up and settle down for the night. Mike volunteers to keep watch, since they are now a party of two, but Brooks doesn’t think it’s necessary. “The biters almost never come here. I don’t think they know anyone’s inside.”

Mike nods, deciding Brooks probably knows best, and beds down. He’s staring at the ceiling when the other man’s voice speaks up again. “Mike?”

“Hmm?”

“Do you--?” he falters. “Are you okay? With staying here, I mean? I hope you don’t feel like I’m forcing you to or anything.”

Mike is thoughtful, before replying into the darkness, “Well, a sex shop isn’t exactly what I had in mind for my dream home as a kid, but I guess it’ll do.”

Brooks “mmm”s and Mike can hear him shift around on his bed. Mike continues, “It’s much better than being out on the road all the time. By myself.”

“Goodnight Mike,” Brooks says, and Mike can hear the smile in his voice.

“Goodnight, Brooks.”

~

Mike has been living with Brooks for two weeks, and he’s about to lose it.

It’s nothing about Brooks—not Brooks specifically, anyway. Brooks is just fine as a roommate, but the fact is he _never_ leaves the store. Mike can’t remember the last time he was in one place for this long. He supposes this is how Brooks has survived this whole time, holing himself up in a nondescript location with plenty of food and resources, but it’s driving Mike nuts to be so cooped up.

He wakes up to find Brooks calmly reading the same issue of _Hooked Magazine_ —Summer 2013, with a gigantic Marlin on the cover that has glazed-over eyes that stare into Mike’s soul—that he’s read at least four separate times, cover to cover.

“How can you still read that thing?” Mike asks through a yawn.

“Morning to you too,” Brooks says, peering over the top of the pages with a smile.

Mike sits up, rubbing his eyes. “Seriously man, what’s even in there? Can you seriously read about _fish_ so much?”

“Mmmhmm,” Brooks replies, having turned back to his magazine. It’s then that Mike realizes he is not simply reading, but also highlighting. Every minute or so, Brooks will make a quick mark on his papers with a flick of his wrist.

Mike scoots closer to the other man to see what exactly he’s doing. What’s highlighted are not long phrases like he was expecting, but instead single words that don’t seem to belong to any particular pattern. “What are you--?”

“I pick the words I like best,” Brooks supplies, not looking up. “The ones I think sound the best, or look the best, or the ones I don’t think I’m likely to hear again.”

Sure enough, looking more closely at the chosen words, Mike does notice a pattern: ‘extraordinary,’ ‘humongous,’ ‘tropical,’ ‘glimmering’… “That’s… really cool.”

“Passes the time,” Brooks says simply.

Mike watches him for another moment, Brooks’ blue eyes focused and sharp, and stands up abruptly. “I’m going out.”

Instantly, Brooks forgets about his magazine, and his eyes cloud with worry. “What? Why?”

“I don’t know how you’ve done it, but I can’t stand to be in here any longer. I need to go for a walk, see if I can find something else for us to eat besides processed salt. And maybe find you a new magazine,” he adds, half to himself.

“Oh.” Brooks closes his magazine slowly and sits up. “Are you—will you be okay out there? Not that you can’t handle yourself,” he adds quickly. “I just—it’s dangerous out there.”

“Well in case you’ve forgotten, I made it three whole months ‘out there’ before I found you. I think I can handle it.”

Brooks frowns, but is wordless as Mike begins gathering his gear: paddle, knife, gun, backpack… He can’t help but feel his anxiety mount, perhaps partially due to Brooks’ worrying, about going outside. He’s doing it mostly because he’s antsy, but a part of him is also afraid that his isolation is making him go soft. Which triggers yet another worry.

“Brooks, are you—gonna be okay here? I mean, I know you said biters never get in, and we haven’t had a problem since I’ve been here, but--”

“In case you’ve forgotten, I made it three whole months ‘in here’ before you came. I think I can handle it.”

Mike makes a face. “I do _not_ sound like that.”

Brooks just laughs at him. “Okay know-it-all, go see what you can scrounge up for us out there. There’s a gas station about half a mile north that’s not really near anything that ought to be pretty much untouched.”

Mike usually prefers to stick to main roads and highways, but figures he can check this place out since Brooks has yet to be wrong about the area. “Okay. Any requests?”

Brooks rubs at the scruff along his jawline. “Pudding,” he decides finally.

“Got it. If I’m not back by sunset, assume the worst, but until then, don’t touch my shit.” Mike’s only joking, but both of them know that there’s a very real possibility he won’t come back. Brooks sees him out the front door and Mike can sense him watching him from the window. It’s only then if he wonders if he should’ve stayed in.

~

Mike sets out down the street, keeping his gun cocked and at the ready. It’s surprisingly quiet as he moves down the desolate rows of deserted shops: he half-expects to see a tumbleweed blow by like in those old Western movies. As he moves north, the landscape shifts and becomes more rural, shops changing to quaint houses interspersed between clumps of trees. As his surroundings change, so too does Mike’s sense of unease. There are more places to hide among the trees, and it’s all too easy to picture himself being jumped. Mike tries to focus on counting the houses and buildings as he makes his way down the street, but he’s constantly looking over his shoulder.

He encounters a small group of biters—three—near a house that’s been trashed. He finishes them off easily, smashing their heads with his paddle. The reverberating sensation that comes through his hand when the paddle makes contact is exhilarating. He’s surprised with how little difficulty he had in taking them down: while he loved living with Brooks and having the company, he was beginning to worry that his skills may have been going soft with all of the downtime. Good to see that’s not true.

About six houses later, he sees a larger pack ahead of him—nearly a dozen—that he feels less confident taking on and takes a detour, weaving around houses and through yards, trying to avoid being seen. He can see gas tanks in the distance and knows this must be the place Brooks was talking about, so he smothers the anxiety rising in his chest and pushes onward.

The herd is on the opposite side of the street of the gas station, but they’re currently preoccupied with shuffling after some animal that darts underneath a front porch. A cat, probably. Mike feels a twinge of guilt, remembering his own cat that had run away not long after the plague, but knows he has a good chance to get into the gas station unnoticed. He slips in through the back door with one final look at the pack, then concentrates his attention to what’s inside.

He does a rapid check between the aisles for any biters that may be lurking quietly and finds none. None behind the cashier’s counter, nor the restrooms. The place is totally deserted.

“How does he know everything when he never goes outside?” Mike grumbles. He swings his backpack off of his shoulder and begins loading up. Brooks is again proved right that the store is well-stocked: there’s even moldy doughnuts in the glass case at the front that show just how untouched the place is.

Mike sticks to packaged food, because by now anything that once claimed to be “fresh” is now decidedly not (other than a rack of hot dogs that look suspiciously the same as they did months ago.) He remembers Brooks’ request for pudding and grabs him both vanilla and chocolate Snack Packs, unsure of his preferred flavor. He tries to get as much “healthy food” as he can, but he finds quickly that that isn’t very compatible with “packaged food.” He settles for soup, chili, canned vegetables, and plenty of water. He feels a bit like a turtle when he slides his pack back on, but he adjusts and heads for the door.

Something catches his eye as he’s reaching for the door handle. He pauses. Next to the counter is a rack of magazines, and one is glinting under the rays of the sunlight streaming through the window. Mike squints and picks it up. It’s a hockey magazine, and the shine is coming from an embossed, silvery Stanley Cup on the cover, held over the head of the previous year’s champion. “Our Picks for the Playoffs: From the East to the West and the Least to the Best, We Rank Them All,” it reads.

Mike’s heart aches. Hockey was his favorite sport growing up, playing with other boys from his neighborhood when he was a kid in Calgary. He’d had a dream of going pro, but—as he learned even before the plague—not all dreams get to come true. He had nevertheless kept up with the sport, watching Flames games with his friends in the evenings over a few beers and putting on the radio broadcast whenever he was working late at a job. It’s probably one of the things he misses most about the time before, although he supposes that now, in the grand scheme of things, sports didn’t really matter much.

He rolls the magazine up slowly, not tight enough for it to curl during the trip back, and stows it in one of the side pockets of his bag. He absent-mindedly plucks another fishing magazine for Brooks and stores it in the other side pocket.

Mike’s still lost in thought, and he doesn’t pay as much attention as he should to where he’s going until he hears a jingling noise behind him. His head whips around, one hand on his gun. There’s a bell attached to the top of the door in usual gas station fashion. Why didn’t he hear that when he came in? Unless--?

Mike turns back around, looks straight ahead, and realizes he’s gone out the front door. He shoots a panicked glance across the street. _Maybe they won’t--?_

They do.

The herd must have given up on the cat, and in the time that Mike was restocking, they’ve begun wandering aimlessly around. The bell has obviously drawn their attention, because they’re all beginning to move toward him as a unit, glazed, bloody eyes locked on him. _Shit._ What’s even worse, he realizes, is that they’ve multiplied: there are at least two dozen biters now. _Double shit._

Mike turns tail and bolts through the back exit, taking his previous route along back yards and parking lots in the hopes that they’ll lose sight of him and give up.

They don’t.

They follow him from the street, tracking him even as he disappears behind buildings every few moments. The backpack is slowing him down, so he’s not covering as much ground as he was before. They’ve locked onto him and don’t seem to be intent on letting a live meal go. Mike wills himself to go faster, but they’re still steadily gaining on him. He needs to lose some weight, pronto.

He doesn’t stop running, but cuts back onto the street, hoping the solid pavement will be easier to run on. It is. Mike reaches around and grabs the first thing he can from his backpack. Canned chili. _Good, that stuff’s gross anyway._ He chucks it at the herd and cheers when it hits one of them, knocking it and a few behind it out. He throws another can of chili, a can of beans, and a bag of pretzels. He winces at the loss of valuable protein, but the cans are the heaviest, and he’s soon light enough to be able to put some good distance between himself and the herd.

He’s three blocks from NSFW now, but the herd hasn’t given up. They’re about fifteen yards behind him, but that’s still too close for Mike’s liking. He needs to ditch them so he doesn’t lead them back to Brooks, but how?

Mike’s brain is working fast, the burning in his lungs and the soreness of his leg muscles preventing him from focusing. There are still too many of them for him to take on by himself, unless he were to try to shoot, but he wouldn’t be able to do that while running, and if he misses, he could easily be overwhelmed.

Mike thinks back to what he told Brooks before he left. _Don’t touch my shit._ If he doesn’t make it, those are some pretty poor last words. He’s got to think of something.

Up ahead, he sees the motionless bodies of the three biters he had killed on his way into town, one in the street and the other two in the yard of the trashed house. _The house!_ The house is little more than a few boards held up by who knows what at this point, so maybe… If he could trap enough of them inside, he could force the house to collapse under their weight, hopefully killing them all (and not himself in the process). He has no clue what the interior of the house looks like, but it can’t be too solid given the shape of the outside. _Maybe it could work…_ Mike decides he’ll have to take the chance, out of ideas and nearly out of time.

He stops and turns to face the herd that’s been pursuing him for so long. “Hey assholes!” he yells, waving his arms to be sure all of them are fully focused on him. “You want a fresh lunch, you’re gonna have to get it to go!” And with those (more satisfactory) last words, he bolts for the dilapidated house.

He took care of the three that were here earlier, and these things usually like to travel in packs, but Mike is still cautious as he approaches the house. No one out front. He kicks down the door, gun at the ready. He takes his first step over the threshold and stops, second foot raised. There is an enormous hole that spans the entire surface of the floor except for a ring of old floorboards maybe two feet from the walls.

Mike can hear the groaning and shuffling not far behind him, too close for him to retreat and think of something else. _Great. I’ve succeeded in trapping myself._ He gulps and takes a cautious step onto the platform. Despite an initial _creak_ , it seems like it will be able to hold his weight. He pulls off his backpack and chucks it out the doorway onto the lawn. He’ll retrieve it later—that is, if there _is_ a later. Mike flattens himself to the wall and moves deliberately along the outside of the hole.

The house is fairly small, with only two doors, one in the front and one in the back. The hole seems to have come from some kind of explosion downstairs: the amount of floor still attached to the wall is not even in length or shape. This must have been the living room at some point, Mike notes, catching glimpses of crooked family photos hanging on the wall in between watching the door and watching his step.

He’s made it about a quarter of the way to the back door when the first biters begin to shuffle in. They seem confused at first, but soon locate him. The first one doesn’t notice the hole and plunges quickly to its end. The others that follow learn from example, attempting to come at Mike from the side, but their uneven gaits do not fare them well, and they too are soon plummeting down to the basement.

His plan is working, and Mike has nearly reached the back door when he spies one biter that has separated from the herd. It’s an old man, gray in complexion and overall appearance, excepting his white beard matted with dark, dried blood. It’s caught on to Mike’s trick and shuffles carefully along the side of the wall. Mike wills himself to get there, but he knows he can’t go much faster without risking his safety. The old man is fast, faster than he expects for a reanimated corpse. It’s gaining on him quickly, almost within striking distance in minutes, but Mike is still several feet from his exit.

_Bump._

_Ow_ , Mike thinks. He’s bumped his head on something jutting from the wall—a light fixture. The globe is shattered and jagged, but the arm is still solidly screwed into the wall. The biter is about three feet away by now. Mike’s pressed to use his last resort: his gun. He grabs the arm of the fixture, aims, cocks, and fires. Mike swears he can see shock in its bloodshot eyes as the old man shudders. It staggers, having lost its balance, falls, and joins the rest of the herd below.

Mike closes his eyes for a moment. He takes a deep breath, clearing his mind, and replacing the image of the old man with the image of NSFW, and Brooks.

He opens his eyes.

He is alone.

The herd is gone. All of them have fallen through. His plan has worked.

Mike takes his time getting to the back door, now that he’s finally free of pursuers. He shuts the door behind him and slumps up against it. Now that the danger has passed, he realizes how truly exhausted he is. His heart is still racing, and his muscles ache.

_Can’t stop,_ he tells himself. _Gotta finish the job._ Summoning his strength, Mike shoves his shoulder against the wall, putting his entire body weight into the push. He feels the wall shudder and give way and he jumps back as it collapses onto the remains of the house. The other three walls sag and crumble on top of the first, leaving a pile of rubble between him and the herd.

~

The door is open when Mike gets back with Brooks waiting to greet him. “How did it go?” he asks immediately.

“Oh… fine,” Mike says, attempting to sound casual.

Brooks bites his lip. “Why don’t I believe that?” When Mike doesn’t respond right away, he presses further. “Did something happen? Are you okay?”

Mike snorts. “Okay, mom, no need to overreact. I ran into a little trouble, but I handled it.” Brooks still looks nervous, so Mike decides to change the subject. He slings his pack off of his back and zips it open. “Besides, I got us some food. Like, _real_ food.”

At that, Brooks’ frown fades and he kneels down and begins rifling through Mike’s contraband as Mike takes off the rest of his gear. Brooks pulls out a can of chili. “You know this stuff is total shit, right?”

“Oh, sorry, I’ll return it on my next trip,” Mike says sarcastically. “I got you your pudding at least.”

Brooks pulls out the pack of chocolate cups and inspects them. He chuckles a bit. “If you had asked me before all of this, I would’ve told you I wouldn’t eat processed food if it was the last edible thing on Earth. And now look at me. Pudding.”

“Yeah, you’re really letting yourself go,” Mike says with mock sympathy. “I’ll be sure to look for some kale or quinoa the next time I’m out.”

Brooks gives him a shove, then turns back to the pack. “What’s this?” He pulls out the hockey magazine.

“Oh—uh—” Mike fumbles over his words, embarrassed, but for reasons he’s not sure. “I just—picked it up. I dunno.” Brooks is entranced, running his forefinger over the embossed Stanley Cup on the cover.

“You a hockey fan?” Brooks asks. His voice is quiet, but his eyes are bright and intense.

“Yeah,” Mike answers hesitantly, “you too?”

Brooks nods soberly. “All my life. Grew up watching the Maple Leafs on TV, but Joe Sakic was my favorite. When I was a kid and the pond in our neighborhood froze over, my parents couldn’t get me to come inside. I put more than a few dents into our garage door practicing shooting.” He smiles, and an image of brilliant light refracting off of glass in the sunshine flashes through Mike’s mind. “I always wanted to go pro, but… it didn’t work out. I always caught the games, though.” He’s quiet for a moment, obviously lost in his own thoughts of the past. He looks back up at Mike, his smile wide. “This is way better than pudding.”

Mike thinks so too.

~

Mike and Brooks spend the rest of the day reorganizing their stash and talking about hockey. (Mostly talking about hockey.) They read the feature article on the Stanley Cup playoffs that would have been happening right about now had it not been for the plague, and debate hotly who would have won it all. Both men have qualms with the editors’ picks, and they find that their allegiances aren’t _that_ different, but they still bicker about them nonetheless.

“You can’t honestly tell me that you think the Penguins would beat the Kings in the final,” Brooks says as he arranges his bedding for the night. “There’s no way. The Kings defense would totally shut down the Pens: they’re too strong against the boards. They’d probably go in five if they didn’t get swept.”

“No way!” Mike counters. “The Kings’ defense is good, but not good enough to stop the Pens: they were on pace to win the Presidents’ Trophy that year. It’d go to at least six.”

“All right, six,” Brooks cedes. “But Quick puts up a wall the last two games and pitches back-to-back shutouts to end the series.”

“One shutout.”

“Deal.”

~

So it continues: about every two weeks, Mike goes out to replenish their supplies and scratch his restless itch. Brooks always stays behind, and although his interrogations of Mike gradually become less anxious, they never cease. Mike doesn’t press the issue, but wonders why, even after all this time, Brooks is still so worried. Brooks even directs him where to go, but Mike reads concern all over Brooks’ face any time he leaves. So Mike does his best to stay in, even if it means going a little stir crazy.

On a particularly sunny day about two months after Mike arrived, Mike thinks he’s found a compromise. “Why don’t we open some windows in here?”

Brooks is taking stock of their inventory with a pen and paper borrowed from the desk in the office. He’s in the middle of counting up their chips and crackers when Mike poses the question, and the pen pauses. Brooks considers the idea, and just when Mike is certain he’s about to reject it, he says, “Okay. Good idea. We need some light in this place anyway.” He jots down a number and stands, abandoning his project for now.

He and Mike move around NSFW independently, twisting the blinds and cracking the windows. “Not too much,” Brooks instructs. “Just in case of… you know.”

“Yeah, I hate bugs,” Mike says. Brooks gives him a look.

The last window Mike opens is above a rack of sexy board games. Out of curiosity, he picks up a red and black box and reads the title: “Jenga: Truth or Dare.” It appears to operate like regular Jenga, but with questions and dares printed on the blocks for, as the box advertises, “a twist.” By comparison to the rest of the games on the shelf, this one seems pretty tame: the sample dares on the outside of the box read ‘Sing a song’ and ‘Impersonate someone in the room.’ “You ever play any of these?” Mike asks, turning to Brooks.

“What, by myself?”

Mike winces, although he’s pretty sure Brooks is mostly joking. “Oh, right. Sorry. Well how about this one?” He hands Brooks the game.

Brooks holds it up to the light, examining it. “Well… I was gonna finish inventory today,” he says slowly, weighing the box in his hand.

“Why?” Mike counters. “It’s not like it can’t wait until tomorrow. Or the day after. Or the day after that…”

“Okay, okay,” Brooks cedes, waving a hand. “I get your point. Just let me finish this. I don’t want to lose track of where I am.”

Mike sighs and takes the game back from Brooks. “Fine. I’ll set this up on the counter, since it’s flat.”

It turns out Brooks is nowhere near finished, so Mike spends what feels like an eternity building, demolishing, and rebuilding block towers and feeling a bit like a toddler. He engineers what he believes to be the best possible tower, putting the crappy questions on the bottom so they’re less likely to be pulled.

“So,” Brooks says, emerging from the back office, “how much am I about to humiliate myself?”

Mike grins. “It’s actually not that bad,” he says. “At least, compared to the others we have.”

“If you say so.”

After a quick run-through of the rules, Brooks goes first. “‘Remove an item of clothing.’” He cocks an eyebrow. “Are you _sure_ this is one of the tame ones?” Mike shrugs helplessly. Brooks shakes his head and pulls off his jacket. “Your turn.”

Mike pulls a black block from the middle of the stack. “‘Describe your first kiss.’ Oh. I was at a party when I was fourteen, and it was a dare, so it wasn’t all that great.”

“Was she nice, at least? Did you know her?” Brooks presses.

“Yeah, she was all right, I guess. We had a couple of classes together and she lived in my neighborhood.” Mike pauses, unsure whether he ought to tell the rest of the story. _What’s the point of truth or dare if you aren’t honest?_ “Her brother was a lot hotter, so I ended up kissing him by the end of the party too,” he admits. He prays that his bisexuality won’t make things awkward between him and Brooks. “I think I’m winning the humiliation game here,” he says, attempting to cover his embarrassment.

But Brooks is grinning. “No kidding? Charming both the sexes at fourteen. It took me three years longer than you to kiss another guy, and even then, I pretty much only had luck with girls.”

Mike furrows his brow, confused. “Wait, so you--?”

“Yeah, I’ve been down both sides of the street, as they say. My friends used to joke that it was because I was a ‘glue guy’--somebody that people just gravitated towards--but I always found different things about guys and gals that I liked, y’know? Each person, even, has their own little things about them that are interesting.” He shrugs.

Mike nods, stunned at how eloquent yet nonchalant Brooks is about this. “Yeah, I can understand that.”

They go back and forth for a while, telling stories and spreading out the humiliation more evenly as they do so: Brooks is forced to recount a drunken escapade wherein he and his friends went skinny-dipping in a frozen pond, and Mike slow dances with one of the blow-up dolls. Brooks upsets the tower in the first round by laughing too hard and accidentally knocking into it, so they reset and play again.

A few turns into the second round, Brooks selects another red “dare” block. “‘Say something romantic to the person next you.’” Mike’s heart flutters in his chest and he feels his face grow warm. “I guess that’d have to be you, wouldn’t it?”

“Unless you and the model over there have something going on I don’t know about,” Mike says, referring to the mannequin modeling lingerie in the center of the shop.

Brooks chuckles, turning the block over in his hand. “Nope, sorry.” Brooks is taking his time thinking this over, and it’s freaking Mike out. He tries not to fidget and tells himself to grow up, that this is just a stupid game they’re playing to pass time and that whatever Brooks says should be taken in that context: as just part of a stupid game.

“Mike,” Brooks says finally, focused on placing the block on top of the tower and thus avoiding Mike’s eyes, “out of all of the people left in this world that could’ve wandered in here, I’m glad I’m spending the apocalypse with you. You make this whole ‘last man on earth’ thing a lot less lonely.”

Okay, following that advice is going to be a lot harder than he thought. “Thanks, Brooks,” he says, his voice cracking in the middle. _Way to ruin it, idiot._ Mike selects another block to avoid dwelling too much on it. “‘What’s your greatest fear?’ That should be obvious. Death by one of those things outside. Actually,” he adds, his hand stilling mid-air above the tower, “death by a pack of those things. That would probably be worse.”

Something flickers in Brooks’ eyes and he stares at the floor. “Brooks?” Mike prompts. No response. The air, despite the open windows, seems to have stilled. “It’s your turn.”

Brooks blinks, looking back up. “What? Oh.” He draws. “‘What’s the best game you’ve played in the dark?’ It’s gonna be this game, soon,” he says, glancing out the window at the growing twilight. He puts the block on top of the stack carelessly, and as a result, it tips over. Brooks doesn’t react, his eyes still unfocused.

“You wanna pack it in, then?” Mike asks.

“Sounds good. I’ll go get dinner,” Brooks says, voice distant. He disappears down the hallway.

Mike scoops up the blocks and restacks them into the box. He doesn’t know what’s up with Brooks, but he figures it’s probably nothing. The last tile to be put away is red, and the question on it catches Mike’s eye. “Say something romantic to the person next you.” Mike rubs his finger along the beveled edge of the words. After brief consideration, he pockets the block, unwilling to pack away this memory just yet. That night, he deposits it under his pillow to remind himself when he wakes up that, in fact, it was not a dream.

~

Mike awakens in darkness with a start to a crashing sound followed by a thump. He sits up, senses alert. Not too far away, he can hear a low moaning sound. No, moaning _sounds_ , plural. Oh God.

“Brooks!” Mike hisses, shaking the other man’s shoulder. “Wake up!”

“Hmm?” His eyes open, their pale blue reflecting in the moonlight. “Ey, Mike, if you’re gonna wake me up in the middle of the night, at least—” he starts loudly before Mike silences him with a hand to the mouth.

“Shhh! Didn’t you hear that?”

“Hear what?” Brooks mumbles around Mike’s hand.

“That noise. Listen!” Again, the moaning can be heard, and, Mike realizes with a sense of dread, it sounds like it’s getting louder.

The two men are up in an instant, grabbing the closest weapons. Equipped in a matter of seconds, they make their way out into the hallway, pressed against the wall.

The noise is definitely coming from inside the shop. Mike peers cautiously around the corner of the doorframe to assess the situation. What he sees, he is in no way prepared for.

At least eight biters have already made their way into the shop from the back door, and Mike can tell that more are trying to force their way in. They’ve knocked over the shelves that Brooks and Mike usually push in front of the back door to prevent this kind of thing, but there must be so many of them that they’ve overpowered it. The scene is made all the more eerie by the darkness of the shop: the only light they have comes from the moon outside, and as a result, the biters seem bigger and more numerous than they probably actually are.

He turns back to Brooks, whose eyes are wide with fear. “It’s bad,” is all Mike can think to say.

“How many?” Brooks replies.

Mike winces. Brooks answers his own question by leaning past him and seeing for himself. “I think we can do it,” Brooks says.

Mike stares, dumbfounded. “You can’t be serious.”

“I am. We have ammo, we have weapons—we can do it.” Brooks’ face is solemn.

Mike continues to gape. “Brooks, there is no way—”

“We have to try!” he cries. “We can’t just give up and run away! Not after everything this place has given us. It’s our home.”

Mike’s stomach twists at the word “our,” but he pushes the feeling aside. He takes another survey of the intruders. They continue to pour in, as steady as water rushing out of a hole in a bucket. He turns back to Brooks. He has steeled himself: his muscles are tense, and the fear in his eyes has been replaced with a blaze of defiance.

“You can’t run away your entire life, Mike,” Brooks continues. “All roads come to an end. At some point, you have to stop and fight for what you want.”

Mike nods, studying the sleek barrel of the gun in his hand. “I know that,” he says quietly. “You think I wanna leave? Now that I’ve found somewhere I actually feel like I belong?” His throat is dry, and his voice raspy. Evidently Brooks can still understand him, because the other man gently places his hand on top of Mike’s. Brooks rubs his thumb lightly along Mike’s skin. Mike’s breath catches in his throat for a moment. They share a gaze, drawing on each other for strength, then Mike sighs.

“This might be suicide,” Mike says as he cocks his gun, “but that doesn’t mean I’ll go easily. You ready?”

Brooks nods. The two step out from behind the wall and dive immediately into the fray.

Mike is hit instantly by an overpowering stench, the smell of rotting flesh making his own skin crawl. He tries not to gag and elects to shoot first, fearing he’ll be overpowered in a hurry if he goes for hand-to-hand combat. He tries to shoot based on their distance from him, but not all biters move at the same pace, so his effort is not always even. Brooks is doing the same, his hand steady as he aims and fires. They stick close to each other, and time their shots so that one is always shooting, even if someone’s reloading. They fall into a rhythm for a bit, and are standing their ground, but they are burning through ammunition rapidly.

Mike hears the click of Brooks’ empty magazine next to him as he himself is reloading. “I’m out,” Brooks says, an edge of panic to his voice. The tide of biters has not stemmed, and shows no sign of doing so any time soon: Mike can see still more on their way in.

“Here, take mine,” Mike says as he shoves the clip into the gun and hands it over to Brooks. Without pause except for a grunt of thanks, Brooks rings four shots through the heads of four biters over Mike’s shoulder.

By the time these four are lying on the ground, six more have made their way in and Mike breaks out his paddle. (He’s really getting a lot of mileage out of this thing.) He takes out three as the rest continue to invade the shop, forcing him and Brooks back several paces. Keeping count of exact numbers is hopeless: Mike is swinging and hitting but not always killing. Brooks is doing what he can, but the room seems nearly full to capacity and they’re both exhausted. Mike needs to find a way to dam the tide, but the herd is so thick he wonders how he could even get back there to shut them off.

He recalls in a flash his incident at the broken-down house not so long ago, and he wonders if he could try something similar. Some of the shelves that occupy the left side of the shop are still standing, so maybe he could push them over and crush some of them, at least slowing the herd down for a moment and blocking off the entryway in the process.

“Brooks!” he shouts. “Cover me. I’m gonna try to cut them off.”

Brooks wheels around. “What? No way! There’s no way you can make it back there!”

“I can if you cover me!” Mike counters . “We won’t make it if we keep going like this; we have to stop them from getting in. There’s too many of them to—”

“ _Mike_!” Before he can process what’s going on, Brooks is shoving him to the ground. Brooks whips around and grabs the closest thing he can—an arm from one of the mannequins—and knocks over two biters with it in a single swing, finishing each off with quick blows to the head. They must have been headed straight for him while they were arguing, Mike realizes.

“Thanks,” he breathes, awed.

Brooks stares at him, his hands clenched tightly around the fake arm and his eyes wide. He appears to be on the verge of saying something when a huge crashing sound echoes from the back of the shop.

The herd has knocked over the last remaining shelves, and while it’s taking them a moment to grasp how to navigate over and around them, they are still steadily making their way toward the front of the shop. As quickly as his plan had formed, it is gone. Mike’s hopes are dashed. He frantically scans the shop, hoping that something will give him a new idea, but the shop seems to be nothing but biters. He turns to Brooks, and they have the dual realization that they have to leave.

“Go get what you can from our supplies,” Brooks instructs, offering Mike his hand and pulling him up off of the ground. “Fill my bag too, but don’t take too long. I’ll cover you and buy you as much time as we can, then we escape through the office window.”

Mike nods. Brooks flings the mannequin arm into the herd, and stakes out behind the checkout counter. Mike takes off toward their soon-to-be former sleeping quarters.

First, he pulls up the blinds so he’s not fumbling around in absolute darkness. He snatches his and Brooks’ bags and begins stuffing them with whatever he can grab: snacks, canned food, water… The bags fill up quick, but Mike wiggles some things around to fit the hockey magazine inside. He grabs the jacket laying on Brooks’ bed and ties it around one of the straps of his backpack. He gives it a tug to make sure it’s secure when something small tumbles out of one of the pockets, hitting the floor with a _plink._

The object catches moonlight from the window and shimmers, compelling Mike to examine it. He stoops down to pick it up and squints. It’s a ring. A diamond ring, in fact, and meant for a woman. Mike is wrapped up in trying to figure out why Brooks would have this when he hears Brooks shout from the other room.

“Mike? How ya doin’ in there, buddy?”

Mike drops the ring as if it’s bitten him and grabs his bag. “We’re good to go, Brooks,” he shouts back through the doorway. Brooks appears in an instant and takes his backpack from Mike’s outstretched arm. He pats it down frantically, zipping and unzipping pockets before swinging it onto his back. “You go first,” he says, ushering Mike toward the window. Mike frowns, but obeys. He hears rustling behind him for a moment until Brooks hops out the window after him. “Let’s get out of here,” is all he says instead of an explanation.

They start running as soon as they’re outside, wanting to put as much distance between them and the herd as they can. Mike isn’t really sure where he should be going, but Brooks is too busy looking over his shoulder at the quickly disappearing shop to lead the way. They follow the main strip through town for a while and meet no trouble. The night air is cool and quiet, but the darkness, tempered only by the full moon, is enough to make both men tense and alert.

They slow their pace to a jog after a while, and soon are forced to stop when they come across a fork in the road. Mike screws up his eyes to read the signs pointing in either direction. To the left is “Shady Oaks,” some kind of retirement community, and to the right is a continuation of the highway.

“What do you think?” Mike says, turning to his companion.

Brooks doesn’t answer. The expression on his face is unreadable, his attention focused only on the sign for Shady Oaks.

“We should probably go for the neighborhood, don’t you think?” Mike prompts. Brooks visibly tenses. “What?”

“Nothing,” Brooks says hesitantly. “You’re probably right. Find somewhere there to spend the night, figure everything out in the morning.” He nods, seemingly trying to convince himself.

“Okay. Well let’s get going then.” Mike is confused by the way Brooks is acting, but they’ve both had a long and stressful night, so he doesn’t ask.

They set off, walking now, but still keeping eyes and ears out for biters. “Have you ever been over to this area?” Mike asks to break the silence.

“Mmhmm. A few times.”

“So you know where we’re going then?”

“Oh yeah.”

“Good.” There’s a pause. “Do you—think there’ll be a lot of biters?”

Brooks flinches. “Could be. Hope not.”

Mike frowns. He doesn’t know why Brooks is being so guarded all of a sudden, but it’s a mix of worrying and irritating. He gives up on conversation and focuses on the road.

They soon reach a welcome sign for Shady Oaks that precipitates a long, winding street that slopes up and down small hills with multiple outlets to other, smaller roads. Mike can’t make out too many details; even with the light from the full moon, he can only glean a general idea of the landscape. It puts him a little on edge, not really knowing where he is. After staying in the same place for so long, Mike feels hyper-aware of every shadow he sees and every rustle he hears. He trusts Brooks enough to bring him somewhere safe, but just because he hasn’t been wrong so far doesn’t mean that that streak will hold true every time.

“Let’s try the first one,” Brooks says before Mike can make a suggestion, pointing at the first house they see. Mike nods, and Brooks takes the lead.

The house is empty, although the front door hanging off its hinges suggests that it was not always this quiet. It opens into a living room tackily decorated with old furniture and wood paneling, but style points are not exactly top priority at the moment.

“You get some sleep, Mike; I’ll stay up and keep watch for a while,” Brooks offers.

Mike frowns. “Are you sure? You’ve gotta be tired; we’ve had a long night.”

“No, I’m—pretty awake, actually. I’ll be up for a while. Get some sleep: I promise I’ll wake you for next watch in a few hours.”

Brooks’ tone tells Mike there’s no point in arguing because his mind’s made up, so he settles down on the couch while Brooks parks himself on the front porch in a rocking chair. As he lays waiting for sleep to come, Mike tries to piece together what’s wrong with Brooks. He must certainly be upset about losing the shop: that place was his home for months— _their_ home, Mike thinks. But Mike’s upset about that too, and while Brooks lived there longer than he did, Mike feels like something else is going on here.

_He’s been especially distant since we got to Shady Oaks_ , Mike thinks. What connection could he have to this place? Brooks told him originally that he’s from around here, but this is a retirement community: there’s no way he would’ve lived here. How else could he be _from_ here if he didn’t live here?

And then it clicks.

_His parents!_

Mike sits bolt upright at the realization. He thinks back over the responses Brooks had given him to his previous questions, and something he had said in their first encounter echoes in his mind as means for an answer: _“Oh, I’m from around here. Parents lived a few blocks over, in fact…”_ He recalls the ring he found back at the shop and wonders if it was his mother’s, or maybe his sister’s. This must be his parents’ old neighborhood. Mike doubts that this is their house: Brooks must have brought him to this one so they could avoid it.

Mike chews his lip in indecision. Brooks tends to deal with his problems on his own, but this is big. And while Brooks might just shrug Mike off and insist that he’s fine, Mike knows he at least has to try , because he’s obviously hurting.

“Brooks?” Mike calls gently from the doorway, peeping his head outside. The other man is still in the rocking chair, staring out into the night until he hears Mike.

“Hey,” he says, sounding confused. “I thought you were gonna get some sleep.”

Mike shrugs, sitting down on the coffee table next to Brooks. “Thought you might want some company. You seem like you have a lot on your mind.”

“Yeah,” Brooks admits, rubbing at the back of his neck, “a few things.”

There’s a pause. “Look, Brooks,” Mike murmurs, “I—I know this is where your family lived, and I’m sure that’s really tough to deal with. If you wanna talk about it or anything, y’know, I’m here.” Brooks had flinched at the word “family”; Mike winces, hoping he hasn’t overstepped any boundaries.

Brooks is quiet for a moment. He stands and walks over to the porch railing. “I guess I don’t have anybody else to talk to, huh?” he says after a while. “It’s just… Well, like you said, it’s tough. I never—I never found out what happened to them, y’know? I got stuck in that shop not long after everything…” He waves his hand as a way of referring to the plague. “…happened. I got stuck in there, and then I was too much of a coward to come out and face the real world.” He shakes his head. “I wouldn’t’ve been able to help them anyway,” he adds, defeated.

“You don’t know that,” Mike supplies. “And you’re not a coward.” Brooks snorts, not convinced. “You’re not! You saved my life back there, man. I wouldn’t be sitting here if you hadn’t taken out those biters at the shop. I didn’t even see them coming.” Mike moves to stand beside Brooks. He’s gripping the railing on the porch tightly with both hands and not meeting Mike’s eyes. Delicately, Mike places his hand over Brooks’. “You’re not a coward,” he repeats.

Brooks’ gaze shifts down to their hands and he gives a minute nod, seeming to consider Mike’s words this time. “Thanks,” he mumbles. Mike can feel Brooks’ grip on the railing loosening as he gradually relaxes. They stay like this for a minute, relishing the physical contact.

Before Mike can process what’s going on, Brooks is enveloping him in a tight hug. Mike would like to pretend that he smells like something wonderful, like pine woods, or the ocean, or Old Spice deodorant, but, frankly, he smells like sweat. Mike’s not really mad, because he probably doesn’t smell the best either. Mostly, the fact that Brooks is hugging him at all kind of trumps everything else. Mike hugs him back, trying to keep his hands from wandering or lingering anywhere they shouldn’t be. Brooks’ back muscles are strong, Mike notes. And his arms. The thing Mike notices most is how he can feel Brooks’ heart beating next to his through his sturdy chest.

Too soon, Brooks is pulling back. “Thanks,” he repeats. There’s just enough light for Mike to see the corner of Brooks’ mouth twitch upward the slightest bit. “Really. It… means a lot. You should probably get some sleep while you can.”

“Like you shouldn’t?” Mike jokes. He takes this as a sign that Brooks wants to be alone, so he turns to head back inside. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” Brooks replies, taking up his previous position in the rocking chair.

As he lies down again on the couch, Mike tries to ignore the somersaults his stomach is doing and force his heart rate to slow. The last thought he has before succumbing to sleep is of strong arms wrapped around him for the second time, and this time, Mike imagines, they do not let go so swiftly.

~

Mike wakes to the sound of crashing dishes. His eyes flutter open and are greeted by the bright morning sun. _Shit_ , he thinks. It’s _way_ later than dawn. He tries to push disaster scenarios and reasons why Brooks didn’t wake him out of his mind.

He scrambles up off the couch, shrugging off a crocheted blanket he doesn’t remember putting on the night before and fumbling for his paddle. Silently he creeps over to the doorframe separating the living room and the kitchen. Paddle raised and steeling himself for the worst, Mike peers cautiously around the corner to assess to the situation.

Brooks has his back to Mike and is humming under his breath as he rummages around in the kitchen cabinets. Mike exhales, relieved to find Brooks alive, and lowers his paddle.

“Are you making breakfast?” Mike asks, stepping into the kitchen.

Brooks turns around and smiles. “Oh, you’re up! Yeah, I was just putting a little something together. You hungry?”

“Starving,” Mike replies, settling himself at the island in the middle of the kitchen. “Have you slept?” he asks, noting Brooks’ bloodshot eyes.

“Uh…” Brooks trails off, busying himself with trying to find two matching glasses. He gives up and settles for two coffee mugs. He sets the cups down and begins pouring apple juice as he continues. “No. But I found some cereal and some peaches ! I mean, they're canned peaches, which hardly counts, and the cereal's a little stale and we don’t have any milk, but it’s totally edible.” Mike surveys the buffet Brooks has laid out, a place setting for both he and Mike organized neatly on each side of the island. Brooks hands Mike a coffee mug with a flaming phoenix on it and begins dishing out food.

“This is… This is really sweet, Brooks. Really. Thank you.” Brooks’ smile grows by inches. They clink glasses and dig in. Mike is super grateful for the juice, and the fruit, because eating dry Cheerios feels about as dehydrating as the two whole days he went without water before he found Brooks and the shop.

They eat in comfortable silence for a while. Mike muses on how normal this all seems: actual breakfast food in an actual kitchen, sun streaming in through the window, even birds twittering outside. He feels a dual longing for the time before the plague, because it was simple, and the time now, because it includes Brooks. Still, Mike can’t help but think about how _nice_ it is to just have a simple breakfast with Brooks. Not constantly looking over their shoulders, something resembling real food, no biters… He could really get used to this.

“What’s up for today?” Mike asks in between bites.

Brooks takes his time chewing his peaches. He swallows, puts down his fork, looks Mike straight in the eye and says, “I want to go to my parents’ house.”

Mike nearly chokes on his cereal (not from the lack of milk this time.) “What?”

“I want to go to my parents’ house,” Brooks repeats. “I want—I _need_ to know if there’s anything left.”

Mike takes a long pull on his juice. “You know you don’t have to do this, Brooks. It’s totally understandable if you don’t want to. I don’t expect you to—”

Brooks holds up a hand. “I know what you mean, Mike, but you’re wrong. I do have to do this. I need to know for myself what happened. There’s a chance they could still be there, you know.”

“I know.” It’s what Mike’s most afraid of. Not for his own selfish reasons—well, not entirely—but because of the sheer amount of guilt Brooks would likely feel for not having come for them sooner. “I just hope you find what you’re looking for there.”

~

They set out once Brooks has done the dishes—he insists that they ought to, since it’s not their house, and “it’s just good manners, Mike: you clean up after yourself if you borrow something”—the sun high in the sky as they trek down the main road of Shady Oaks.

Conversation is minimal: they call out biters nearby, plan, and attack accordingly. They stick close by each other, their arms brushing every so often. Mike longs to reach out and hold Brooks’ hand, but he knows Brooks is probably already feeling overwhelmed with emotions, and he doesn’t want to add to that if he can help it. He can tell, even from these brief touches, that Brooks is on edge: his muscles are tense, even though his expression doesn’t betray him. So Mike settles for the arm-brushes and puts on a brave face for Brooks’ sake.

“It’s this one,” Brooks says finally, stopping in front of a white, ranch-style house with an overgrown garden out front and tall grass.

“Okay. I’ll go first,” Mike volunteers, stepping past Brooks and starting up the flagstone walkway. Mike wants to protect Brooks in case of the worst, but Brooks stays close on his heels.

Mike reaches for the doorknob, but Brooks stops him with a “Wait,” before raising his fist and knocking. As they wait, Mike can feel his heart sinking lower and lower. The unkempt yard coupled with the still, silent air is dashing any hope Mike had for Brooks’ parents. Brooks raises his hand to knock again, but Mike intercepts it. He can’t bring himself to share his doubts with Brooks, so he tells him instead, “If they’re your parents, I don’t think they’ll mind if you just walk in.”

“Right.” Mike squeezes Brooks’ wrist before letting go and opening the door. Silence inside. “Hello?” Mike calls. Still silence. Paddle raised, Mike cautiously makes his way into the house.

The house opens to a large living room with a couch that faces a stone fireplace. An open kitchen is off to the left, doors to bedrooms to the right. Mike and Brooks’ footsteps seem to echo in the silence, despite the openness of the house’s construction. “Mom? Dad?” Brooks calls. No reply. He lingers in the doorway as Mike continues on.

As he scopes out the house to ensure that there aren’t any rogue biters lurking around, Mike notices a few things . First, he gets the idea that this house was, at one point, very well-kept, because although dust is beginning to settle on the counters, everything is organized. Or at least, it was. That’s the other thing Mike notices. While some things like kitchen utensils and books on the living room shelves are perfectly arranged and orderly, the majority of the house is in disarray. Broken pieces of china are scattered across the kitchen floor, and various knickknacks that appear to have once hung on walls have been knocked to the ground. While something clearly happened here, whatever it was happened some time ago. There’s no trace of Brooks’ parents being here recently. Mike knows they must be gone for good, and Brooks appears to be having the same realization as he finally moves inside the room.

Brooks makes a beeline for the fireplace, which is surrounded by family photos. Mike follows, feeling a chill run down his spine as he notes that every frame is broken. A large, professional family portrait of Brooks and (who Mike assumes to be) his parents and his siblings hangs off-kilter on the wall with a crack running through the middle. Mike’s heart aches with sympathy for his companion as Brooks joins him and the two regard the pictures. _Brooks looks so happy_ , Mike thinks as he travels through time in film, watching Brooks grow up as he looks from baby photos to graduations to family reunions. _He must’ve been really close to his family._

Brooks is staring at one photo in particular, and Mike follows his gaze to a silver frame on the center of the fireplace mantle. The photo is of Brooks with his arm around a young woman with short, blonde hair, both of them wearing smiles a mile wide. The sun shines brilliantly in the background, and the Brooks in the photo is looking at this woman with the kind of pure, unbridled joy that one does not reserve for family members, but for only the very special. The Brooks standing next to Mike seems to be staring _through_ the photo, past it, his wide eyes seeking out something more than the piece of paper behind the shattered glass.

“Brooks?” Mike prompts. The other man closes his eyes, and Mike thinks he hasn’t heard him until he responds back after a long pause.

“She was my fiancée,” he says, his voice hollow and barely above a whisper. He opens his eyes and digs around in the pocket of his jacket. He produces the ring Mike thought had been left back at the shop and clutches his hand around it. “Her name was Julianne. She was… I loved her.”

Those last three words sting Mike more than any biter ever could. Here he’d thought he may have had a chance with Brooks, that they were really establishing a connection, but it shows how much he knows. How did Brooks keep this from him for so long? He thinks back over their interactions and tries to picture them colored by this new information, that really this whole time Brooks was in mourning. Brooks’ reluctance to talk about the time before suddenly makes much more sense. Mike feels like total shit, partly because he didn’t figure this out earlier, especially after finding the ring yesterday, but mostly because it means there’s no room for him in Brooks’ heart, as he clearly cared for Julianne. Hurt as he is, Mike needs to know the rest of the story. “What happened?” is all he can think to ask.

It turns out to be the _wrong_ thing to ask, because Brooks shatters like the glass frames in front of them as soon as Mike puts the question mark on that sentence. Any trace of the tough, stoic man that he’s known up until this point vanishes as Brooks covers his face with his hands, dropping the ring, and full-on weeps. Mike guides him over to the couch and leaves his arm around Brooks’ shoulders as they shake with sobs.

“I didn’t mean to—Shit. I’m so sorry—You don’t have to—” Mike stops and starts, at a loss for what to do or say. He pushes any feelings of jealousy aside to focus on comforting Brooks, even if it means pain for himself later. He rubs Brooks’ back a little, and this seems to bring him out of his sorrow, if only a moment. Brooks palms at his eyes and sniffs, attempting to control himself. He dries his eyes on his jacket sleeve.

“God. Fuck. I am so sorry,” Brooks says, his voice still shaky. “I didn’t mean to—I’m a mess.” _Sniff._

“No, man, it’s all right,” Mike soothes. “You don’t have to be sorry. It’s not your fault.”

“But it is though.” Brooks’ voice goes quiet again. “That’s what happened. I didn’t—I couldn’t—I couldn’t save her, Mike. She died because of me.” Tears again gather at the creases of his eyes, but this time Brooks lets them fall and continues speaking. “It was early on. Back before they really knew what was going on, or what to do. We were staying together, and we got ambushed, and there were too many of them, and--” He trails off. “It was all my fault. I didn’t know what to do. I got away, and then I shut myself up in NSFW, and I never came out again until yesterday. Probably wouldn’t have, if you didn’t show up. I just—couldn’t live with myself, y’know? I felt so guilty, I didn’t really care what happened to me. That’s why I never came out here. I was so overwhelmed I couldn’t get myself together enough to find out what happened to my parents . But then you came, and—” Brooks pauses to shoot a quick glance at Mike and wipe his eyes. “Things changed. I started _living_ again. But I was still—I _am_ still—so afraid…” His voice drops even lower to a whisper. “I just can’t lose you like I lost her. Now that I know for sure my family’s gone, you’re all I have left. I just can’t—I can’t lose you, Mike.”

Mike is reeling from all of this new information: he feels like his head is a spinning top, whirling around and around until what Brooks has just said brings him to a swift halt. _‘Like I lost her’… Does that mean…?_ Mike’s heart is racing as he realizes Brooks is staring at him expectantly, the tears having stopped. Slowly, watching the expression on Brooks’ face to ensure this is okay, Mike’s hand migrates from Brooks’ shoulder to the back of his neck, bringing their faces and finally their lips together. Brooks sighs into the kiss, and Mike can’t help but shiver, not from cold, but from the way Brooks’ beard grazes pleasantly against his cheek.

Mike is first to pull away, not because he wants to, but because he’ hasn’t said anything since Brooks’ monologue, and he feels like he should. “Well good news for you then, because I’m not going anywhere. You’re stuck with me. Even if I’m the last man on earth and you’re doing this purely out of sexual frustration, I don’t care. Because I am not leaving you. Ever.”

Brooks grins and silences him with another kiss, erasing any doubts Mike may have had a minute ago about this being okay. (It is absolutely more than okay.) Brooks breaks contact to get air and reply, “Good. Because you’re stuck with me too. And maybe I am a little sexually frustrated, but that’s definitely your fault.”

“I’ll take credit for that,” Mike says.

Brooks rolls his eyes and kisses him again, this time like they very well may be the last two people left on earth. Mike recalls the truth or dare game they played what feels like ages ago but was really just yesterday. At the time, he’d kept that Jenga block as a reminder of what Brooks had said to him, but Mike now realizes that that “romantic something” was true for him, too: that if he had to be alone in this world, he was glad Brooks was with him.

The next time Mike drifts off to sleep, the strong arms are real, and he knows they are not letting go any time soon. Wherever they end up going next doesn’t matter to Mike, because he knows he’s finally found what he’s been looking for this whole time: home. Home is Brooks. And Mike knows Brooks feels exactly the same way.

**Author's Note:**

> This is actually the longest thing I've ever written (fic or otherwise), so please tell me what you think! <3 (Or, at the very least, cry with me about the offseason almost definitely breaking up this pairing.)


End file.
